The Crafter's Darkness: A Dungeon Core Novel (Dungeon Crafting Book 4) by Jonathan Brooks (e book reading free txt) 📕

“I think we’re almost there,” Ferio said softly from Wyrlin’s right-hand side.  He practically whispered, but not because they weren’t allowed to talk; no, it was because raising one’s voice required entirely too much energy for most of them.

Wyrlin lifted his tired head and looked ahead; it took him a few moments for his vision to focus on something that wasn’t just a few feet in front of him, but when he did he saw a large camp with hundreds of small tents ringing a larger, central tent made out of what appeared to be a dark, scaly leather of some kind – and without any visible joins, which meant that it was all one piece.  If he didn’t know better, he’d say that it looked like it was off of one of the mythical dragons that were rumored to live in the deepest parts of the forests surrounding them.  That would be crazy, though, because no one ventured that deep anymore, if they ever did.

The distance was deceptive, however, and the sky was already darkening by the time they arrived within bowshot.  Whether it was because the sight of their destination sapped all of her strength or her body finally gave out, Fyola collapsed into unconsciousness in mid-march just outside the outer ring of tents.  Rather than kick her the rest of the way, one of the Orcs easily picked her up and threw her body over his shoulder without even breaking stride, obviously thinking it was better to just carry her rather than shuffling forward an unconscious body.

A part of him hoped that she died, but then he realized that they might actually need her help if they were to have any hope of getting out of the situation they were in alive.  Some of the other Elites spoke the Orcish language, and so did Ferio he thought, but she was their leader – as much as he hated to acknowledge that – and had been the one to talk to the Orcs back at the forest.

From what he knew about their culture, they respected and followed those stronger than themselves and expected others to do the same; despite the fact that she had passed out on the way there, it was undeniable that Fyola was stronger in her manipulation of elemental energy than he or any other Ranger there. It was hard to tell with the other Elites how they stood in relation to her, but as they treated her as the leader that really said something.  If they didn’t go into negotiations to get them out of this situation without their “best”, they might not get out at all.

They were led to a relatively large tent near the middle of the camp, though not the one he had seen earlier with the dark scaly surface.  It was just barely large enough to hold them all even then, and lying down would be difficult but not impossible. As soon as they were inside, the Orc carrying Fyola dropped her unceremoniously on the floor and left.  The rest of their escort had peeled away earlier to who knew where, which left a lowly two Orcs standing guard just outside the tent’s entrance.  One turned to speak something inside before turning away, completely disinterested in seeing after their care.

“It appears as though the…Warlord?...is busy right now and won’t be able to see us until the morning,” Mercyll spoke softly to the silence within the tent.  “I suggest you all get some rest; I know that I for one need it because I’m almost completely out of Holy energy.  Don’t bother to set a guard; if they had wanted to kill us, they wouldn’t have brought us all this way.”

That seemed like common sense, which just put another positive mark in the soft-spoken Elite’s favor.  His more approachable demeanor, accompanied by the fact that he sacrificed his energy to make sure everyone kept moving – and not just the Elites – made Wyrlin, not for the first time, wish that Mercyll had taken charge back in their home forest rather than Fyola.  It still would’ve rankled the Ranger, but he also probably wouldn’t want to kill the Elite with every step he took, either.

Wyrlin dropped to the floor without further prompting and was out before he could count to ten, even with the feel of someone draped across his legs.  As sleep slammed into him, he thought that it was almost guaranteed that many of those with him were going to have to get quite comfortable together in order to lie down at all.

It felt like no time at all when he woke up abruptly, some sense of wrongness settling over him.  His eyes shot open, only to see the bright light of morning streaming through the front of the tent. Wyrlin groaned as he pushed himself up with his arms, the pain in his muscles not as bad as it was yesterday but still present, though the wrongness that had woken him up immediately became apparent when he couldn’t feel his lower legs.  A quick look back at them revealed the problem; Ferio’s body was still draped over them, cutting off a lot of the circulation to his lower extremities.

His movements woke up the old Ranger, who sat up and scrambled to his feet in an automatic response, which freed up Wyrlin’s legs.  As soon as the pressure of Ferio’s body was gone, the blood rushed down into his legs and feet, causing them to tingle horribly – but he sighed in relief as feeling came back to them.

“Wh-what’s the word?” Ferio asked, his sudden awakening obviously causing his brain to stutter a little as it caught up to what was going on around them.

“No idea, but it’s probably time we get everyone else up; I’m sure we’re going to be summoned or whatever soon,” Wyrlin responded,